


The Mood

by remremy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, neither of them did the hurting sherlocks just hurting himself but its ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remremy/pseuds/remremy
Summary: He's lying on the sofa, waiting for John to come home from the surgery [3 more hours, his brain helpfully supplies] when The Mood settles on him like an overly heavy, suffocating quilt.





	

It happens suddenly. He's lying on the sofa, waiting for John to come home from the surgery [3 more hours, his brain helpfully supplies] when The Mood settles on him like an overly heavy, suffocating quilt. It feels like his Belstaf, wrapping around him, but laden with mud, dragging him down and pinning him onto the sofa. It's the armor of his coat but its terrifying; the comfort of concrete beneath his feet then the sudden absence of it. It feels like drowning, like freefalling, and like being crushed all at once.

This just... happens, sometimes. Nothing really warns that its coming, but it does, and John's always said to call if he happened to be out when it did. John. He must be having a good day, Sherlock doesn't want to ruin it with all of his bad feelings. This is how he used to love John, too. On the inside, where no one could see, where it wouldn't hurt anyone [but himself]. He doesn't have to anymore, but he still does hide The Mood from John if he can. He'll get over it, no need to worry John and give him The Mood too.

The thing is, Sherlock _does_ want John's help, his attention when this happens, but he wants it from _John_ , to have it because _John himself_ wants to give it to him. Even though John did say to tell him, Sherlock doesn't want to _force_ John into comforting him, doesn't want him to see he's hurting, but also _wants_ to be seen and comforted, but doesn't want to force- 'round and 'round in the mental circles Sherlock goes until it passes. He checks the clock on the wall: hour and a half until John's home. He really must get over himself before John sees him.

He sits, wallowing in The Mood, circulating over everything Bad he's done or said or _thought_ [pointless, of course. Nothing can be done about it now] and [oh, no, not this] heat rises behind his eyes. He turns his face farther into the crease where the back cushion and the bottom cushions meet as he lets the tears fall. An hour and twenty minutes [fifteen minutes, he'll need time to let the redness leave his face before John sees].

Sherlock drifts awake, eyes flying to the clock on the wall even as he rubs the crust out of his sore eyes. It's fifteen minutes past. John hasn't been home though, there's no sign of his coat having hung on the peg or his keys having arrived on the side table by his chair. Sherlock tries to get rid of the tear tracks on his face as he looks for some sign that John's been home [he's normally very punctual, excited to leave work, excited to see Sherlock] but there's nothing.

_Oh god, he's dead_ he thinks immediately. It's an exaggeration but its the first thing his mind supplies. _Kidnapped._ No. _He's avoiding you, got tired of you, doesn't want to see you_ a voice in the back of his mind [sounds suspiciously like Mary] taunts. Sherlock knows its ridiculous, John's said he loved him many, many times but the thought settles and takes root. Of course he would want to avoid Sherlock. It only makes sense.

He sits down hard on the sofa and scrubs at his face again. _How_ could he really have thought that someone as amazing and perfect as John would want to stay with someone as- as _annoying_ and thoughtless and sociopathic as Sherlock. He stares off into the middle distance with the [Mary] voice inside his head poking and proding at Sherlock's weak spots. He feels tears well up again and grabs a pillow to hide his face in.

"Sherlock?" John's voice feels like a stab to the gut, smiling and soft, as the door creaks open. John stands, flowers in his hand, doing a quick sweep of the room before settling on Sherlock. His smile drops, concern washing over his features instead. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

He comes and drops the flowers [three (3) daisies, two (2) green carnations, and four (4) tulips] and sits next to him, taking his splotchy, wet face between his [very very soft (?? lotion???)] hands. Sherlock says nothing, staring at him, red-rimmed eyes wide and mouth slightly open. "I'm sorry I was late, love, there was a nice lady selling flowers and I'd wanted to get you some, I didn't know it'd upset you." He kisses his cheek gently and pulls him into a hug.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Don't know just. Felt bad. Then you came late and I thought you- thought you were avoiding me, had gotten tired of me." John's hand anchors itself in the curls at the back of his head, pushing his face firmer into John's neck. He leans back, pulling Sherlock with him, until they're both lying on the sofa, Sherlock on top like a blanket.

John shakes his head. " _Sherlock_ , I _love_ you. I thought I'd said to call me if you felt like this."

"Didn't want to be. Annoying or. _Make_ you comfort me. I thought I'd be done by the time you got home. Didn't want you to see." Sherlock shrugs. John kisses his temple. "Sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, love. I just want you to be okay. You don't deserve the bad feelings. Only good feelings. Nothing but the best for you. I love you."

Sherlock nods and stands up. John smiles up at him and Sherlock pulls him up as well, keeping hold of his hands as he takes John's place on the sofa and pulls John on top of him. He shuffles down so that his face is buried in John's chest from beneath, his jumper soft and warm and smelling like John. It's dark too, and he can hear John's heart beating. He wraps his arms under John's armpits and puts his hands over his shoulders, holding him close, and putting his legs around John's waist for good measure.

John huffs a laugh-breath into the crook of Sherlock's neck. "I'm not going anywhere," he says softly, and Sherlock grips him tighter, sniffling a bit. _Maybe he's right_ , Sherlock thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> me, reading back over this: projecting my own feelings onto a character that i identify with who????? i dont know her


End file.
